The Lost Language of Cranes (42 page)

Carefully he turned to face his father. "Are there things I can do?" he asked. "Are there ways I can help you?"

Owen shrugged. "I met a man the other night," he said. "I think I may see him again. Also married, younger than me, but not much. I like him very much."

"That's good," Philip said. And again, for emphasis: "That's good. But what about Mom?"

Owen sighed. "I don't know," he said. "I just don't know."

"I'm sure everything will be fine," Philip said. He turned from the window and walked over to the closet, knowing his father was trying to catch him with a stare. He gathered blankets and sheets and began to make Owen's bed on the floor. "I'm afraid it won't be too comfortable for you," he said. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather have the bed, and I'll sleep on the floor?"

"It doesn't matter much," Owen said. He stood and walked to the window. "Jesus," he said. "I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe this is really happening to me."

"Dad," Philip said, "you're doing the right thing, talking about it. Don't ever doubt that."

"I know," Owen said. He laughed. "It's funny, I'm shaking all over, just like on my wedding day. I feel so strange, so alone and cut off, like I've done something irreversible, and things will never be the same again and nothing will ever feel normal again, feel good again—" And again he was on the verge of tears.

"It feels that way tonight," Philip said. "But tomorrow will be different." He wished mightily he could summon the courage to embrace his father and knew he could not. "You
will
feel good again. I promise. Give it time." And Owen nodded.

He had laid the blankets and sheets on the floor. "Are you ready to go to sleep?" he asked, and Owen turned, wiped his eyes. "Thank you," he said, looking at the makeshift bed Philip had created. "That looks very comfortable." Absently he began to unbutton his shirt, and Philip turned away, turned out the light. But the apartment was bright with moonlight, and in the shadows he could still see his father's heaving chest, his small brown nipples with their rings of gray hair. He looked for a few seconds, then averted his eyes. Owen undid his belt, unzipped his pants. With a crash of keys they fell to the ground and he stepped out of them. He looked forlorn in his big white boxer shorts, lost. Carefully he picked his way across the floor, lay down on the nest of blankets, gathered himself into a ball. The sheet did not stretch far enough to cover his feet. He shook visibly, screwing up his eyes as he tried to will himself into whatever sleep this night might offer him.

Philip stepped past him into the kitchen. He brushed his teeth, watching the brush move back and forth in the mirror. Then he rinsed his mouth and stood in the entry to the kitchen before his father's prone body. He would lie awake for a long time, he knew, looking at Owen's white ankles in the bright moonlight.